His nickname for me. Silly. But I’m paler than a sheet, and with my red hair…he used to say my hair lit up the whole room.
Flipping to his favorite part—when Hagrid shows up at the hut on the rock to tell Harry he’s a wizard—I try to focus on the words, but the strain of the day weighs me down. The citrusy scent of chamomile infuses the room, and I sip my tea as I stare at the framed photo Zion had on his dresser—the one that now graces my nightstand.
A month before he disappeared, I took him to a Red Sox game. We binged on hot dogs and nachos, and even though it started pouring in the ninth inning, we stayed until the end—a Sox walk off home run in the tenth.
Exhaustion has my head bobbing, and a few drops of tea splash onto one of the pages as I almost drop my mug.
“Snack cakes!” Scrambling up, I grab a handful of Kleenex and blot the liquid. The action forces the spine to bend further, and I catch sight of Z’s writing. Tiny, cursive letters almost hidden in the crease between the pages.
Four sets of numbers, separated by periods. Followed by a slash, then the word “firefly.”
“What in the whole of the universe, Z?”
When I took computer programming classes in college, Z wanted to learn too. So we studied together every night. The kid had so much natural talent…and zero motivation beyond impressing his big sister. But he could have aced that class. The numbers…they’re an IP address or I’ll eat my mug…handle and all.
Once my computer wakes up, I enter the numbers and the directory name.
She who stands up for herself…_______________.
Anxiety wells in my chest as I type the password:rules her own heart.
A quote our father scribbled on Post-It notes all over the house after I broke up with my one and only high school boyfriend. I punched the little weasel when he pulled up my dress in the school hallway after prom.
When the screen fills with text, I gasp. “Oh, Zion. What did you do?”
3
Ryker
Pressing my thumb to the biometric lock, I wait for the beep, then enter my ten-digit passcode. As I step inside the warehouse, I breathe deep. Sweat, coffee, bleach, and the lingering scent of laundry detergent fill my nose. Home. Or as close as I’ll ever get to one.
Despite my condo’s comforts—and security measures—the warehouse is the only place I’ve found any peace since I left the military.
Dim lights along the ceiling illuminate the wide-open room. The boxing ring almost glows, the light blue surface clean and shiny. The clock on the microwave flashes. Power must have gone out sometime in the past two weeks.
Heading for the lockers, I let the backpack fall from my shoulder. I can’t go to Cam and West’s wedding, but that doesn’t mean I’m a total dick. I slide the card out of my bag and slip it between the slats of West’s locker. It doesn’t say much—then again, neither do I. Not anymore.
Inara gets a note too, though hers… I open the letter, wishing I could talk myself out of this, but knowing I can’t.
I’m going dark while I’m away. You and Royce need to focus on healing. Cam and West should have a proper honeymoon. I’ll be back when I figure my shit out. Until then, you’re in charge. Run drills. Keep the new guy on his toes. But no jobs. Stay safe. I’ll make contact when I get back. - R
She wants me to “open up.” Hell, she even offered to make me an appointment with her shrink after the mess that almost got us all killed. But I’ve had enough people in my head. After I escaped Hell, I spent a year in therapy. Talking about my feelings. Recounting every single day. Every fear. Every time I prayed for death. Didn’t do a damn thing. I still have nightmares every night.
So I’m taking the coward’s way out. At least until I get my head on straight again. This isn’t who I am. I’m the guy who took down ten Taliban guards while bleeding from a dozen different wounds. The guy who crawled over rocks and through the Afghan underbrush for two miles in pitch blackness before he found West and his SEAL team. The guy who couldn’t wait more than ten days to go back in and try to save the only member of his squad left.
I’m not a fucking coward. But as I pull my go bag from my locker and rifle through the contents, shame warms the back of my neck.
The overhead lights come on with a crackle, and I whirl around, pulling my gun as I move.
“Ry?” Inara holds up her hands twenty feet away, wariness edging her tone. “I didn’t think you were coming back for a while.”
I blow out a breath and holster my gun. “It’s not even five in the morning. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Royce and I have an early flight.” She glances back towards the kitchen, where Royce leans against the counter with his arms crossed. “We’re…um…going to meet his parents. I needed to lock up my guns. We have a new safe on order, but it won’t be in for another couple of weeks.”
I should apologize. To both of them. For the hurt in her eyes I put there. But I don’t know what to say. “That’s...I’m happy for you.”
Closing the distance between us, Inara touches my arm. “I’m worried about you, Ry.”
